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By Joe Fries
By the time you read this, I may or may not be on a plane headed to London.
I mean, I do have a flight scheduled, but I don’t know what time it is as you’re reading this. Or do I?
In all seriousness, I have booked off for a couple weeks of vacay in the U.K. My travel party consists of me, my mom, my girlfriend, my sister and her son. Wisely, my sister’s husband decided to sit this one out, ostensibly to stay home with their 18-month-old daughter. I say ostensibly, because I think he just wants a little peace and quiet.
If our last family vacation is any indication, he made the right decision.
The year was 2005 – or was it 2006? No, it was 2005, when I was at the very zenith of my bar star years. Our travel party that time consisted of me, my mom, my sister, her husband, and my then-1-year-old nephew.
Quite a diverse crowd. The stated purpose of the trip was to place my grandmother’s ashes in the family plot in Glasgow. My poor mom’s final duty as a daughter was to cart her mother’s remains across the Atlantic, along with a sheaf of paperwork explaining her odd carry-on.
Now, I recall doing the actual internment, but not much else. I spent the time as far away from my family as possible, except for when I could win my brother-in-law’s freedom and take him out drinking.
My days in London and Glasgow were spent visiting art galleries and pubs. An odd mix considering I’m not all that artsy. I do appreciate beautiful things, just not the kind that hang in The National Gallery.
Rembrandt? Meh.
Dogs Playing Poker? Brilliant.
Anyhow, our clan stayed with relatives in Glasgow for the better part of a week. Strangely, there is no room for us this time around. Funny that. Not that I blame them. The Griswolds have nothing on us.
I was left with the sense that we were looked upon with a measure of disdain, what with the boozy one-track Joe, my argumentative sister, the crying kid and my emotional mom. Never mind that my wardrobe at the time consisted of denim. No slacks, kilts or track suits the Scots seemed so fond of wearing.
It’s not like our kin folk never tried. I was an especially poor guest.
Like the time I was invited to golf at St. Andrews – yes, the one where they have the British Open – but was too hungover to get up. Or the time I rolled in at 10 a.m. – about eight hours after I said I’d be back – looking haggard, smelling of cigarettes and booze, and mumbling about a lassie.
This time, however, I’m going to put my best foot forward. I’m taking only one pair of jeans, and I’m bringing my exciting selection of cords, which range in colour from light brown to brown.
And in a bid to be more interesting, I’ve refreshed my memory of Braveheart.
Also, I’m taking my girlfriend along, so although my fun could be cut in half, other people’s opinions of me should improve by a corresponding amount.
Dear thieves: I know what you’re thinking: “How dumb is he to announce to the world that he’s going away on holidays and leaving his house empty?” Think again. Our place is alarmed, double-locked, protected by our dog, one very nasty cat, and my mother-in-common-law. For your sake, I don’t recommend trying.
joe@kelowna.com
250-575-5403
(I’ll get back to you in two weeks)
